


Stubble

by eisenhardted



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:38:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5752234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eisenhardted/pseuds/eisenhardted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime in the post-liberation lull, Max and Magda explore the merit of beards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stubble

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the ever so lovely aberrantsaint over on tumblr.

He’s not stealthy when he moves in for a kiss, his bristly jaw firm set when it nestles into the side of her neck and he ghosts his way up behind her. He’s missed being home. Missed his family and the love that seems to linger there. It claws it’s fingers into his heart, like roots into the earth, as much a part of him and just as dear as that which he considers his own flesh. 

Magda’s missed him too, but perhaps not the beard. She likes the clean shaven way he left her, purely because that beard didn’t itch quite the same way this one does. The sensation against her skin isn’t unpleasant, but it’s not something she’s well versed with either. Shying away from his touch with a sly shove to his shoulder, laughter erupts from that delicate throat in a sing-song voice of amused chiding. “It’s like kissing a thistle, ahuvi. What up and died on your face?” 

Gasping in faux-offense, his laughter mirrors her own when his hold tightens, and those arms snake ever more intrepidly around her middle. “It’s rustic.” He counters knowingly, dipping his head once more to pepper kisses over that slender neck with a ticklish sort of scrape. 

“It’s rid–iculous.” She has to admit, as foolish as he looks, it’s starting to grow on her. The way it smoothes and fluffs over her skin is interesting shall we say? It has her curious, when she turns within his arms, mischievous even, when she strums her fingers so lightly across the downy fluff adorning his face “We should get Anya to braid it.” She teases in all seriousness, fussing over the buttons of his shirt and the other smattering of just visible hair along his chest. She feels like she’s married a bear. That in one breath he leaves a man, and in another he comes back as something else. Something wild and free, and remarkably attractive on some primal level. 

She still wishes he’d shave though - still wishes he was wearing a five o'clock shadow instead of a full blown hobo-esque beard. He thinks she’s wrong of course. He thinks it’s the most debonair and masculine of all fashionable choices he’s made as of late - but he’d be lying if he said the idea of Anya’s wide eyed wonder and dainty hands braiding ribbons and god knows what else into this new addition to his appearance didn’t bring a pleasant tear to his eye. “Behave, Kotka.” He warns amusedly, drifting that hand down over her hip until she rocks into him as if it’s the most natural position in the world. 

“So says the dirty old man, currently copping a feel?” She’s not sure which bit he’ll take more offence to, the insinuation that he’s old, or the fact that she thinks he’s a scruff. Presumably it’ll be the latter, but she’s toying with a loaded gun as it is, dancing around in idle mockery and flirtation, because she missed him. She missed their interludes of silliness, even if only for the theatrics and often acrobatics that likely followed. She misses the way he breathes life back into her home - breathes life back into her. 

“Old? I’ll show you old.” He’s grinning from ear to ear when his hand vanishes beneath her dress, ever intrepid fingers ghosting their way up the inside of her thigh while she calls him every name under the sun. Her palms are flat against his shoulders when she kisses him, when her lips draw that scraggy beard beneath her teeth and tug on it in calculated defiance. She wants to say she doesn’t like it, but in truth it’s quite nice to have something else to hang onto, when he makes her weak at the knees and watches her squirm. 

“Max…prosze.” It’s quiet but sincere when she asks him to stop, when with gentle insistence, her own fingers are clawing at his belt and drawing further strings of laughter from both their throats. They’re lucky Anya’s with her friend tonight, lucky that she isn’t going to bear witness to something very much akin to her own conception. Max can only imagine the look of confused horror on his daughter’s face if ever he were to sit her down for the talk. Children are delivered solely by the Stork in this household, at least for the next five years - and even then, that task can fall to Magda to discern the birds from the bees. 

To the gentle clang of a buckle and the hiss of a zip, he has her up against the wall, legs wrapped around that sturdy waist amidst a smattering of featherlight kisses and ticklish caresses. It’s the brunette’s mouth that seeks what skin she can, pushing clothes from his shoulders in the heat of proximity. Her lips are darkened when her nose nudges to his jaw, her hand venturing lower between the connection of two bodies, to vanish into cotton slacks and turn ore into iron. She can feel him then, snug against her thigh, hear his breathing deepen and his heartbeat thunder to life between her hand. 

He doesn’t need any more encouragement when she half mewls his name, hands following the lines of soon to be laddered nylons, when he sheaths himself completely. She calls him perfection in a tongue that’s not his own, asks if he’s omnipotent, when he moves with such methodical precision it’s like he knows her better than she knows herself. Every roll of the hips is another reminder of how much she loves him, every pant of praise, and sweat slicked embrace the subtle reminder of why he belongs at home, in the arms of the woman that he loves just as much. “I told you there’s life in these old hips yet.” He manages to tease her amidst his own grunted approval, fingers coiled together in the frantic heat as he lowers his mouth to her throat, suckling tanned flesh through the crescendo of his own release. 

“Whatever happened to ladies first?” Rolling her head back against the lemon-tinged wall, Magda makes her feelings known, her nails scraping down his back in justified chiding until - oh yes! There it was, a few well placed thrusts later. She can barley breathe when she rides it out, her legs slackening off from the mutant’s hips when he returns her full force to her feet. 

“My mistake. ” She can’t tell if he’s apologetic or just amused, knowing Max, it could easily be both. Nudging her back when she tries to scuttle forwards, the long absent bane (and joy) of her existence, drops to his own knees with a creak that makes her giggle. He can already feel the word burning on her tongue. Old man. She doesn’t even need to say it anymore, but he’ll show her. Breathing molten heat along the inside of a now damp leg, his bristly jaw scraped along the sensitive flesh in earnest, drawing with it the most pleasant of shivers and expletives. He knows his wife seldom swears, but when she does, it’s satisfying to know it’s only ever for him. 

Keeping his hands firmly at her hips, he holds her steady when he knows she wants to fall, his fingertips bruising rounded flesh when his tongue dares to steal a taste. He’s not the most well practiced when it comes to this sort of thing, but credit where credit’s due, he learns on his feet. Knotting her fingertips into his hair, garbled gibberish flowed from her mouth when he probed further still, lapping and licking and proving his worth. She’s too tame for this, she thinks, every time he so much as suggests it, but sweet merciful Elohim, his tongue must’ve been crafted by the gods themselves to draw this degree of sensation from her. 

Alone it may have been too much too soon, but with the distraction of that fluffy smattering of hair (that matches another distinctly more familiar smattering of equally downy hair), she supposes she can let it slide. She’s enjoying herself a bit too much, squirming against that skilful tongue, until there it is again - drawing waves of contented contraction from her muscles in an abrupt release. 

He lets her fall when he’s glad she’s found her end, wraps her up in those broad arms and savours the taste that still lingers on his tongue, as he curls with her upon the cool stone floor, brushing curls from her forehead with a smile that screams superiority when he buries his face once more in the side of her suitably worshiped neck. 

“You know…I think that hobo-beard’s really starting to grow on me, ahuvi.”


End file.
